Myopic

Myopic

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My opinion is in a messy box
It used to follow a sect of duck-trines in that same box
Duck-trines groomed in the form of a spider
It was caught in the spider’s web which wilt wider
It nursed the spider’s eggs
And attended to the in-sect corpses itself
Totally appending to the spider’s crane
It used to

But before that
My opinion used to love the rain
She got drenched one day
And cold she turned away
From that day, never to go out again
In a web to remain
To be intrinsically safe, warm and sane
But was she

Was she really sane
Nursing babies
Attending to corpses
Appending to cranes
All she wanted was to be free
Even if it meant to stand in the rain
She would rather be drenched with glee
‘It’ was ‘she’

‘She’ became ‘it’ as a tool in a box
She became one with a spider as a boss
She came to a heart when there was nothing but a messy box before her eyes
To run or to hide, but to stay was not an option, as the box was hers
So she swooshed and she swashed
With a broom held in the palms of her hands
And she gave only one reason
Now, she sees

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